The Lords of Blood and Honey (The Kingdom of Honey)

by David Gardner-Martin

‘Is Lord Marshall Highgate, Commander of the King’s Army, amongst their number?’ asked Oblong.

  ‘I have no further information on this, Your Mostfull. But I must also tell you that smoke has been seen rising over the Hivedom. Though it can hardly be believed, Lord Hardknot, it seems, has taken to burning his hives.’

  ‘Burning them?’ cried Oblong, unable to conceal his shock. ‘Can this be true?’

  ‘It is so, Your Mostfull, for I have seen the smoke rising like pillars into the sky with my own eyes.’

  Oblong clapped his hands together with child-like glee. ‘But this is the best possible news!’ he cried. ‘The scent deserts his cause! And without the scent, the high walls of the Hivedom must fall. Oh, how I wish that I could see his face now!’

  ‘I am pleased to be the bearer of such…’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Oblong. ‘Be on your way. The High Commander must be found at once.’

  The guard bowed and hurried away.

  Oblong sank into a deep chair, exhausted by the pace at which events were unfolding. Smoke over the Hivedom was a blessed sign indeed, whilst the arrest of nobles, many of whom he knew to harbor dangerous ambitions for the Crown, was something he had long anticipated the Board would act upon one day. But as the minutes rolled into each other he realised, with increasing consternation, that many things seemed contrary to his expectations. The Golden Symbol remained sealed; Hardknot’s words still nothing more than a frustration to him. And why had Sideswipe not returned to the City? Had he taken the opportunity to desert? But if that were so, where would he go, and what would he do? And what could have caused such a drastic loss of loyalty in yet another of his faithful servants. His impatience for certainty reached boiling point and he punched the chair in anger.

  A short while later he left the Imposium through one of the deep passageways that led directly to St. Vacant’s Cathedral, several Holy Guards ahead and behind him with their broadswords drawn searching the gloom for any threats. When they reached the Cathedral, Oblong sensed danger. He opened a small gap in a concealed stone door, and what he saw stilled the breath in his chest.

  Hivecarls roamed the aisles, whilst the bodies of several Holy Guards lay bloodied on the floor, their mortal remains strewn like rags. He watched as Bishop Henceforth was dragged from the Chapel of St. Pristina. A hivecarl studied the clergyman’s terrified face before simply letting him go, Henceforth falling to his knees and crawling away to hide between two pews. But a forst that suddenly ran for his life was ruthlessly dispatched by a terrifying blow from a hivecarl axe.

  Oblong dared to open the crack a little further, and saw to his relief that the doors leading down to the Sacred Hellholes remained sealed. When a hivecarl approached it, they stopped, then moved quickly away. He continued to watch until he was sure there was no doubt about it, the entrance being given a wide berth by every warrior that came near to it. Well might they take caution, he reflected, for hidden within its depths were powerful entities, hungry to maintain their corrupted existence.

  He closed his eyes and gave thanks to Them for a permanent means of salvation, should it ever be required. Not even Hardknot would dare to confront him in the deepest bastion of his empire. He closed the door gently and began to walk away in a slow even stride, his mind spinning the situation around and around like a wheel.

  The Imposium was an impenetrable fortress, he reflected, and within it his Nomination for the Crown, Baron Pencille, was safely secured. The main force of Holy Guards too, though bereft of their Commander, were also behind these high walls. And despite the occupation of his Cathedral by Hivecarls, the news that Hardknot was burning his hives made his spirit soar. ‘The scent deserts his cause!’ he cried out loud again, to the consternation of the Holy Guards accompanying him.

  Now was the time for the Board of Doings to be made painfully aware of their duty to the Church, and to him personally, he decided at last. Everything else would follow as sure as dark follows light.

  But even Oblong’s faith was shaken by the gruesome sight waiting to greet him when he arrived back at the Imposium.

  The severed head stared back from where it had been placed upon a table, the eyes motionless, but still somehow alive. The blood that some hours earlier had sprung from their nose had now dried, cracking into patterns like oil paint upon an ancient canvas. Long hair, which was also matted with dry blood, lay upon the head like a knotted pile of string, adding a faintly comical air to the grotesque expression that played across a frozen mouth. Cardinal Oblong looked at the neck where the head had so clearly been struck from its body by a single blow. A hivecarl axe, of that there could surely be no doubt.

  ‘We retrieved twenty-three such heads of our comrades, Your Mostfull,’ said the Holy Guard with clear disgust, ‘the bodies having already taken by the creatures that inhabit the dark woods. Most of the horses too, have been…’

  ‘I care not for horses!’ shouted Oblong. ‘Did you find the High Commander?’

  ‘We found neither his head, his body, nor his horse, Your Mostfull. It would seem he escaped the hivecarl attack, but more than that, we do not know.’

  ‘Take it away!’ cried Oblong.

  ‘At once,’ replied the guard, and he lifted the head into a bloodied sack.

  ‘And prepare my carriage and escort! I am to be taken to the Board of Doings at once!’

  ‘Yes, Your Mostfull,’ came the reply, and the tall figure marched towards the door.

  Oblong punched the table, a solid punch this time so hard and the surface so unyielding, that it broke the skin on his knuckles to reveal a stream of bright red blood.

  ‘By the power of darkness,’ he cried out, ‘I shall have my vengeance!’

  The route from the Imposium to the Fulcrum led first along Cardinal Avenue. At the thirty-second intersection, by the monument to King Larksome the Great, it headed down the Silver Mile, passing many magnificent constructions commemorating the lives and works of notable historical figures. The City streets were largely deserted, the eerie purple light of afternoon hardly daring to penetrate a thick canvass of featureless grey clouds. A fine drizzle covered everything in its damp embrace; even the hard cobblestones seemed strangely subdued beneath horses’ hooves and carriage wheels as they journeyed towards the Board of Doings.

  At St Clement Street, a wide and highly fashionable avenue of shops and hostelries frequented by the more conspicuously wealthy nobles, Oblong heard a shouted order and the troop was brought to a sudden halt.

  ‘Hivecarls!’ cried the troop commander, his face appearing a moment later at Oblong’s open window. ‘In force, Your Mostfull, and blocking our way.’

  Oblong pushed the door open and lowered his frame slowly onto the cold street. The daylight was fading fast, but through the purple mist the outline of several hundred warriors could be seen. A shouted order came behind him. He turned, sure that an ambush had been sprung, and saw that the way back now lay blocked by a line of figures on horseback. Not Hivecarls, that much he was sure, but who?

  ‘The Army?’ exclaimed the commander.

  ‘I think them Palace Guard,’ added a nearby Holy Guard, as he squinted into the haze.

  ‘Whoever they be,’ answered Oblong glaring at the man, ‘they have followed us to this place with ill-intent.’

  There was a distant roar and all heads turned once more to see the Hivecarls launch themselves into a headlong charge, the shadows of their terrible axes swirling above their heads like the wings of demons.

  ‘By the bees!’ cried the commander. ‘We are trapped!’

  Oblong did not wait a moment longer, but in a single movement that belied his size, he upended the nearest Holy Guard from his seat and swung himself up and into the saddle.

  ‘Do your duty!’ he shouted, as he grabbed the reins to steady the wheeling horse, ‘and this day will find you in the Blessed Afterwards!’

  He saw a narrow opening that ran beside a large clothing store and with a powerful kick he sent his beast
leaping towards it. Only the clash of steel and the screams of death followed him into a maze of alleyways, the sounds echoing from wall to wall as he fled.

  Chapter 21

  In the Pooter household in Dutiful Crescent, the atmosphere over breakfast captured some of the tension in the City, but the clatter of cutlery as the children fought playful battles for the toast, helped to lessen the sense of gloom.

  ‘Bramblebush said he heard a vulfbear howl!’ cried Punsworth One.

  ‘Can I see a vulfbear?’ cried Punsworth Two.

  Allacar, their Eject child, alone remained silent as he ate his breakfast.

  ‘I do not think you would enjoy such an encounter,’ Pooter replied sternly, an image of the terrible beast with the huge claws in which he had taken refuge in the Palace, appearing in his mind’s eye. Allacar nodded in agreement without raising his head.

  ‘But we will be safe, my dear, won’t we?’ asked Glarious, when the children had been sent to wash their hands.

  ‘The high walls of the City are impregnable,’ Pooter replied. He reached across the table to take Glarious’ hands, his feelings for her growing stronger with every passing day. It was as if a brake had been released, his deeper emotions, submerged for so long in a tide of responsibility, suddenly free once again. ‘No harm will come to us, or our beloved children,’ he added warmly. ‘I simply shall not allow it.’

  Glarious smiled, and despite her worries, she then began to laugh. ‘Oh Punny,’ she said. ‘You say the funniest things. The way you speak, anyone would think you were the Champion of Champions!’

  And Pooter laughed too, the children rushing back into the room to observe the strange sight of their parents holding hands and staring into each other’s tear-filled eyes.

  By the time Pooter set off for his office, news of Hivecarl attacks on Holy Guards filled the streets.

  ‘There are many bodies!’ cried a plump lady, still shaking from what she had seen.

  ‘It’s true,’ added a young man. ‘I think them all killed. And there has been fighting in the Cathedral too.’

  ‘Hivecarls are vicious warriors,’ said an elderly gentleman shaking his head. ‘They are bred from birth for combat.’

  ‘But what will happen next!’ cried the plump lady in some distress.

  No one gave an answer.

  Thankfully all the fighting had been some distance from Pooter’s office, and when he arrived his first appointment dragged his mind back to a familiar world. Mr Royspark Badger of Crastwick Stoneworks, together with his bookkeeper, Mr Nutspat, sat before him with lifeless eyes. Pooter gave them an overview of their trading accounts, Badger’s face falling with every set of numbers.

  ‘T’is a bad time for stone,’ Badger said at last. ‘Wood seems to be the fashion these days. It is clear we will need to diversify if we are to survive.’

  There was a sullen pause as both Badger’s and Nutspat’s heads drooped.

  ‘But with open fighting between the Hivedom and the Church, might that not improve demand?’ piped up Nutspat suddenly. ‘I mean, for headstones, and the like?’ the young man then added, turning to his master as Pooter observed him with distaste.

  ‘You may be right, Nutspat!’ said Badger, perking up and eyeing his bookkeeper approvingly. ‘What think you, Mr Pooter? Might Nutspat here have the right of it?’

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ said Pooter, standing to indicate that the meeting had gone as far as was necessary. ‘Both the Hivecarls and Holy Guards count many souls between them, and all with bodies.’

  ‘We must lay in a quantity without delay,’ said Badger, standing and making for the door.

  Nutspat jumped to his feet to follow his master, Pooter watching them depart with doleful eyes.

  Several interminable hours later, he made his way to the top floor of his office and went out onto a high balcony. The first rays of light from the Blue Sun had cleared the City walls to join the Green and Red in the sky; it was a glorious day. He saw the Dome of St. Vacant’s Cathedral bathed in light, and beyond it the Grand Hive, its summit shrouded in a smoke-like mist. A thin dark column started to rise beside it, twisting and turning as it climbed high into the sky. The strange phenomenon began to move towards him, and as it approached he began to hear the sound of billions of wings. A swarm of Royal Honeybees was leaving the Hivedom! He lifted his head back to stare at the mystical sight, and as he did so he missed several tiny shadows that fell from the sky. He did not sense them at first, but when he felt a tickle on his cheek and lifted a hand to scratch it, he saw them settled in the palm of his hand. The honeybees began to dance across his skin, tracing strange patterns as they buzzed. Pooter watched entranced, hardly daring to move lest he disturb the magical creatures. Then the honeybees took to the air once more, their tiny shapes disappearing quickly into the trail of life above as it began to slide like a snake over the City walls.

  Pooter stared until the honeybees disappeared, the world around him seeming increasingly fragile with every passing minute. But what should he do, he thought, a question that had been bobbing to the surface again and again in the sea of uncertainty swirling deep within him. He knew that the King Bee he had found in the Grand Library, and that Lord Rootsby had released into the City, was the key to a treasure of the ‘utmost importance’, but as to what that treasure was, or where it lay, or what more he was meant to do, if indeed anything, he was still none the wiser. And where was Rootsby now when he had so many more questions to ask him? Would he ever see him again? He looked down at Hexagonal Place and saw, as if through Lord Rootsby’s eyes, the greyness and lack of life. Something was missing from the world that lay before him, something fundamental, and though he tried for several minutes to find the heart of this sense of emptiness, only fleeting shadows of meaning appeared. The harder he tried, the more they danced away to frustrate him further. Only one thing was certain; the thought of consuming any more time on numbers and columns was quite at odds with his mood of foreboding.

  He heard Abather bark, a deep-throated challenge she suddenly let fly into the still air. He had a visitor! He tore down the stairs, relief rushing over him as he saw a large cloak shimmering with colours at the end of the hall. The door to his office was open, and he nearly fell over Cabble as he hurried into the room.

  Lord Eaglett Rootsby was already sat at the head of Pooter’s duckwood table.

  ‘Mr Pooter!’ he boomed, as Pooter appeared in a flash. ‘It is indeed most heartening, I am sure, for you to see me again.’

  ‘My Lord,’ answered Pooter, bowing at once and waiting for permission to move. ‘It is indeed, I most earnestly assure you.’

  ‘Join me at the table, no more ceremony, and tell me of your latest adventures. And as before, omit nothing, for it is in the tiniest details that all our hopes may lie.’

  When Pooter was seated, he did his best to recollect everything, Rootsby nodding, but for the most part listening with seeming indifference. But when Pooter came to the huge painting he had seen in the antiquities emporium holding the hidden image of the King Bee with the warrior Queen, Rootsby sat forward.

  ‘And no one else saw what you discovered under the years of neglect?’ he asked at length.

  ‘No, I am sure not,’ replied Pooter, certain that the proprietor had only jarros in his mind as they had viewed the picture together.

  Rootsby sat back and stared into space, a faraway look adorning his features.

  ‘At last I am here,’ he said, only bringing his gaze back to Pooter after a deep sigh, as if of relief. ‘And, it must now be clear, not a moment too soon.’

  Pooter stared at the man before him, uncertain whether he should speak, and even more uncertain what he could possibly say. But then Rootsby continued.

  ‘There is a young girl,’ Rootsby said gravely. ‘A person created by the twisted ambition of he that covets the Crown. For by abusing Her Love, Lord Hardknot has brought into existence a person of such high elevation, that even he could not possibly have foreseen. For
all must remain in balance, Mr Pooter, and in that endless struggle for equilibrium, the greatest good is no less capable of spawning evil, than evil of giving birth to good. And so out of the depth of his darkness, has sprung a jewel of light more precious than all the treasures of our imagination. But though balance has been maintained, the outcome is now far from clear. If His Oneness recognises her presence, he will covet her with dark ambition, seeking to join their futures as one. And if he were to succeed,’ he paused, as if unable to speak more, but then added gravely, ‘all would be lost.’ He eased himself back in his chair and stretched his legs with the hint of a grimace of pain.

  ‘But…what must I do?’ asked Pooter, still utterly confused, and trying desperately to focus on the part he would doubtless be compelled to play in some new, and clearly terrible, reality.

  ‘The girl of which I speak has been taken from the City,’ replied Rootsby. ‘This much I know. And she will be in the gravest possible danger. You must find her and keep her safe until the first warmth of Spring. Achieve this, and the danger will have passed.’

  ‘I must venture…outside the City walls?’ exclaimed Pooter, aghast.

  ‘Walls no longer protect us from that which grows within our midst. And such dangers as there are now, are as naught compared to the endless peril all will face should Lord Hardknot, Keeper of the Royal Honeybees, find and take this girl into his domain.’ He paused, as if reaching into himself for the right words, Pooter hardly daring to breathe. There was a rustle of wind that rattled a window; a distant howl of a vulfbear. Rootsby sat forward once more before continuing. ‘His Oneness is as complex a concoction of qualities, as ever drew life into mortal flesh. Truly, he is filled with desire for love and beauty, and yet he plans and does great evil. And therein lays the heart of the contradiction; the still point of the wheel; the mid-point of infinity. For though Lord Hardknot has a soul as dark as the deepest night, it is one as closely protected by the light of Her love, as any could possibly be.’

  ‘But this is beyond reason,’ cried Pooter. ‘He must surely be an enemy of all that stands in the name of goodness!’